


The Chastened Man

by sugartrash



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Tabit Adaar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugartrash/pseuds/sugartrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a/n: i'm trash. all my friends kill Blackwall off but i just want him to be happy with my fem/mage Adaar. here's some post-Corypheus relationship sop. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chastened Man

Tabit escaped from the main hall into her rooms hoping for a moment's peace. Instead, she heard the distant sound of hammering coming from her quarters. Her tower was still in disrepair, perhaps they were starting improvements from the top down.

The stairs creaked under her feet, the worn carpets yielded dust with her every step, adding to the perpetual smell of loneliness and the fine haze of glitter hanging in the air. The door to her rooms was propped open and a current of cool air brought her the scent of wood and oil.

"Hello?" She had one hand on her belt knife as she stepped in and, in the back of her mind, she gauged the distance from the doorway to the weapons rack where she kept her collection of staves.

"Thought you'd be longer downstairs, what with your guests from Kirkwall." Blackwall looked up from his work. Her old desk and chair were gone and in their place he was assembling a different set, one better suited to her height by the look of it.

"They weren't in any hurry to dally with a Qunari," she said. She let her hand slide away from her blade but the tension didn't leave her. She hadn't seen him in days. He'd been distant, in spite of both their efforts to mend the gap between them. That they were both trying didn't compensate for the fact that they were failing. "Or a Vashoth, not that most people can tell the difference. Did you make that?"

"I did. I'm not the artist my father was, I'm not the man he was either, but it turns out I didn't forget everything he taught me--though I needed some help to remember it well enough to make this." Blackwall straightened, running a hand through his too-long hair and leaving streaks of pale red-gold wood dust through the black and silver. "He was a carpenter. Cabinet-maker, really. Brilliant at what he did. It was how I got where I did before I lost it all, his good work paid for my arms and armour and my training. He died while I was on the run."

"I'm sorry." Tabit shrugged out of her court robe. It was new, stiff, and heavy. She looked imposing in it--regal, Vivienne said. If only she could take off being The Inquisitor the same way. She hung it up on its stand by the closet where it inevitably startled her when she woke, restless, in the night.

"Don't be. I didn't bring it up to be melancholy. I should have done better by him, been more proud of him, but it's not too late to start now. And see, all these years later, he's given me this." Blackwall ran a hand over the top of the desk. It was beautiful, curved and minimalist, yet sturdy. "Something I can give to you. You shouldn't be stuck with all this ridiculous human-sized furniture. It's disrespectful."

"It's what we had. I don't mind." Tabit curled up on the couch to watch him. It was rare to see him out of armour of one kind or another. Right now he looked like any common man, with his patched leather trews and his scuffed boots and his thin cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves and open at the throat.

"I mind. We had hands to make things. We had workers to spare, we could have found an extra carpenter or two in the masses that followed us here." Blackwall picked up a rag to wipe down the chair he'd made to match the desk. It had curving arms and a high back, legs that ended in carefully crafted paws. "I'll upholster this once I know it fits you properly. Maybe with some of that snofleur leather. It'll make for a nice contrast and it'll last."

"Do you want me to try it out?"

"In time. I'm sure you've had enough of sitting around in the big chair after today. They need to replace that thing as well."

"The Inquisitor's seat?"

"Yes, though I'm sure Josephine will want to find someone more appropriate than myself to do so." Blackwall chuckled softly at that. "And here's the Inquisitor's throne, crafted for the second Inquisitor's flawless backside by the notorious murderer, Thom Rainier, as thanks for his pardon. History doesn't need that as a footnote."

"I think history will remember your relationship with my backside, and the rest of me, as more than a footnote, no matter what you make or don't," Tabit said slyly, and was rewarded with his bark of laughter.

"And I'm sure it'll speculate on my pardon because of it." Blackwall turned to her, twisting the rag in his hands. "Speaking of which, I owe you an apology."

"You've already apologized for all that. More than once." Tabit didn't know how to make him stop. All she could do was forgive him, time and again. Nothing would help but him forgiving himself.

"I don't mean for my crimes, or for lying to you, or for disappearing to take responsibility." Blackwall shoved the rag into his pocket, then crossed the room in a few quick strides. He knelt by the couch, slightly stiff from age and scars and work, and took her hands in his. "Maker, that's a hell of a list. But I mean for how I acted when you pardoned me. I thought I'd learned, that I'd put down my foolishness and pride, and instead I'd only replaced them with things that made me look like a better man when I wasn't at all. I was rude and angry, in public. It was indecent of me."

"You had reason." Tabit held onto his hands, brought them to her mouth to kiss them. They were callused from sword and shield and now had fresh marks from work. "I did what you asked me not to do. And you accepted in the end."

"You did what I never should have asked of you. I told myself for years that I'd become more than I was and, instead, I'd only changed the words for what I craved. Redemption instead of wealth. Honour instead of fame. I claimed things I had no right to claim and told myself I'd bought them with good acts I should have given freely from the start. All good things I corrupted for myself with my failings." Blackwall's eyes on her were clear, his voice steady. There was no self-pity in him this time, no frustration. "You wanted to call me by my name and I refused you, even after everything, because I still didn't want to be that man. I am that man. He threw away every good thing he was given, every blessing, and counted himself cursed. I must live with that and the shame willingly, if only because I am useful to you as I am."

"You are more than useful. I love you." Tabit would have done anything to make him see that. "I need you. I need the man you let me see, the man I know you are."

"You have walked in the places of Gods and demons, you have fought great evil, you mended the world itself." Blackwall exhaled, then let his head lie in her lap so she could smooth his sleek, black hair and soothe the lines from his face. "I don't know how you can see any good in me but I believe you do, so I believe it is true."

"You sound like you're surrendering," Tabit teased gently.

"I am. I do. I surrender." Blackwall closed his eyes. "I am sorry for my sins. Know that and I will stop saying it. And if you want to call me by my name, you should. You can call me anything you want, since you made me what I am."

"I love you, Thom." Tabit bent to kiss his forehead. "Don't stay away from me anymore. Stay with me. Build a bed to suit us both and sleep in it with me every night." His breath caught and she knew he fought the reflex to refuse, to declare himself unworthy.

"As you wish," he said instead, then lifted his head to smile at her. "You are, after all, in charge."

 


End file.
